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‘Mrs Perowne, if I might trouble you for a moment?’
‘Sir?’ She was decidedly flushed from the steam now. Her pink cheeks and the damp tendrils of hair on her brow suited her.
He recalled her leaning over him to turn on the tap as he lay in the bath and forced his croak of a voice into indifferent politeness. ‘Could you tell me how I should direct my man to find this house?’
‘Barbary Combe House, Stibworthy. If he asks in the village, anyone will direct him.’
‘Thank you.’
Barbary Combe House, Stibworthy. Do not enquire in the village for Mr Defoe as I am not known there, having come by sea. Ensure you bring an appropriate vehicle.
C. Defoe
Collins would not fail to pick up on that. The interior of Cris’s travelling coach with its ingenious additions and luxurious upholstery might go unnoticed, but not if the crests on the door panels were left uncovered. It had caused enough of a stir at Hartland Quay to have a marquess descend on a waterside inn, but with any luck the gossip would be fairly localised.
He folded the letter, wrote the address and found a wafer in the box to seal it with, then forced himself to relax. The doctor’s advice had been sound, but despite it, when Collins arrived tomorrow he would be out of here and away from the curiously distracting Mrs Perowne. Back to London, to the normality he had fled from.
Eyes closed, he willed himself to sleep. The room was quiet now, with only the sounds of someone moving about as they tidied up. He was exhausted and yet his eyes would not stay closed. Cris stared at the ceiling. He could always sleep when he needed to, it was simply a matter of self-discipline.
He seemed to be somewhat short of any kind of control just at the moment. He hadn’t had enough focus to notice when he was in danger of drowning himself and he couldn’t even manage to fall flat on his face on a beach without kissing the local widow before he did so. And he was the man the government relied on to settle diplomatic contretemps discreetly, and, if necessary, unconventionally. Just now he wouldn’t trust himself to defuse an argument between two drovers in the local public house, let alone one between a brace of ambassadors over a vital treaty clause.
It had all begun when he had first set eyes on Katerina, Countess von Stadenburg, the wife of a Prussian diplomat at the Danish court. Tiny, blonde, blue-eyed, exquisite and intelligent. His perfect match. And she wanted him, too, he could see it in her eyes, in the almost imperceptible, perfectly controlled gestures she made when he was close, the brush of fingertips on his cuff, the touch of a shoe against his under the dinner table, the flutter of a fan. That one kiss.
But she was married and he was the representative of the British Crown. To have indulged in an affaire, even if Katerina had been willing, was not only to dishonour her, but to risk a diplomatic incident. And he did not want an affaire, he had wanted to marry her. Which was impossible. Honour, duty, respect gave him only one logical course of action. He concluded his business as fast as possible and then he left, taking his leave of her under the jealous eye of her husband as casually as though she was just another, barely noticed, diplomatic wife, a pretty adjunct to her husband’s social life.
Her control had been complete, her polite, formulaic responses perfect in their indifference. Only her eyes, dark with hurt and resignation, had told him the truth. He wished, for the thousandth time, he had not looked, had not seen, and that he could carry away with him only the memory of her cool, accented, voice. ‘You are leaving the court, Lord Avenmore? Do have a safe journey, my lord. Heinrich, come, we will be late for the start of the concert.’
Finally he felt his lids drift closed, sensed the soft sounds of the house blur and fade. Strangely the eyes that he imagined watching him, just as it all slipped away, were brown, not blue.
* * *
‘Michael, take this and give it to Jason, please. Tell him to ride to Hartland Quay at once and find Mr Defoe’s man.’
‘Is he sleeping, dear?’ Aunt Izzy looked up from the vase of flowers she was arranging.
‘Yes. So soundly I thought for an awful moment that he had stopped breathing.’ Tamsyn closed the drawing-room door behind her and went to straighten the bookstand that kept Aunt Rosie’s novel propped at just the right angle for her. ‘He must be exhausted. I am certain it was only sheer cussedness that kept him going. It would be exhausting enough to swim that distance when the sea is warm, but it is still so cold, and with that current it is a miracle he survived.’ She picked up the cut flower stems for Aunt Izzy, then twitched a leaf spray.
‘He must be very fit, which is not surprising with that physique. You are fidgeting, Tamsyn.’ Aunt Rosie looked up from her book. ‘Did wretched Squire Penwith upset you, talking about dear Jory like that?’
‘The man is a fool. Dear Jory was a tricky—er...devil, but even he could not fly.’ She flung herself down on the window seat with more energy than elegance. ‘Yes, the squire upset me, with his blustering and his utter lack of imagination. And, yes, I still hate to think about that afternoon.’ She stared out over the sloping lawn at the sea, placid and blue in the sunlight, hiding its wicked currents and sharp fangs under a mask of serenity. Jory had lived with its dangers and its beauty and he had chosen it to end his life, which meant she could never look at it the same way again.
She lifted her feet up and hugged her knees. ‘And it worries me that Mr Penwith is of no use to us whatsoever with the troubles we’ve been having. I cannot decide whether he thinks we should suffer as payment for my husband’s sins, regardless of what crimes are committed against us, or whether he simply hates me.’
‘Or whether he is a lazy fool,’ Aunt Rosie said tartly. ‘A hayrick on fire—must be small boys up to mischief. Our stock escaping through the hedge—must be the fault of the hedger. Every single lobster pot being empty for a week—must be the incompetence of our fishermen. Really, does he think we are idiots?’
‘He thinks we are women, Rosie dear,’ Aunt Izzy said, hacking at a blameless fern frond with her shears. ‘And not only that, women who choose to live without male protection, which proves we are either reckless or soft in the head.’
‘Perhaps he is being bribed to look the other way,’ Tamsyn said. She had not mentioned it before because she did not want to upset Aunt Izzy. Even now she did not mention a name.
‘Bribed? By my nephew Franklin, I presume.’ Izzy might be vague, but there was nothing amiss with her wits.
‘He does want us out of here.’
‘Out of here and into that poky dower house on his estate where we will be safe and where he can look after us as though we were a trio of children or lunatics. The boy’s a vulture, Isobel,’ Rosie snapped, her fierceness alarming in one so frail. ‘He wants to get his hands on this house, this estate. He wants Barbary.’
‘Well, he can’t have it. Papa left it to me for my lifetime and I’ve a good thirty years left in me, so he will have to learn patience.’ Izzy picked up the vase and placed it on the sideboard. ‘His foolish little games won’t scare me out.’
So long as they stay foolish little games, Tamsyn thought, even as she smiled approval of her aunt’s defiance. She rested her chin on her knees and let her gaze rest, unfocused, on the sea. But why would Lord Chelford trouble himself over this one small estate, other than through pique at not being left the entirety of his great-uncle’s holdings when he inherited the title? Franklin was spoilt and greedy and he would soon get tired of this game and go back to his life of leisure and pleasure in London.
It was strange, though, that he should have made that offer to rehouse his aunt and her companion now. After all, Aunt Izzy had inherited the life interest in the Barbary Combe estate, the house and the contents when her father, the previous Lord Chelford, died five years ago and she had lived there for ten years before that.
It must be a sudden whim. Or perhaps she was misjudging Franklin, perhaps his intentions were good and the series of mishaps just after Izzy had refused his offer were nothing but coincidence and bad luck. Or perhaps the moon’s made of green cheese.
Chapter Three (#ufdd044b4-9d96-5e36-ab74-8b6a5835b7e9)
There was something in the quality of the soft sounds around his bed that was very familiar. Cris kept his eyes closed and inhaled a discreet hint of bay-rum cologne and leather polish. ‘Collins?’
‘Yes, sir?’ Typically there was no hesitation over the correct way to address him.
Cris opened his eyes and turned over on to his back. Collins did not so much as raise an eyebrow at the sudden violence of the swear word.
‘Muscle strain, sir?’
‘The pain you get when you over-exercise.’ Cris levered himself up against the pillow. ‘The kind that makes you think your muscles are full of ground glass.’
‘Massage,’ Collins pronounced, blandly ignoring the reaction that threat of torture provoked. ‘I have unpacked your possessions in an upstairs room and the bed is made up, sir. I thought you would wish to transfer there before nightfall. It is five o’clock and the ladies are all in the front room just at the moment.’
Collins was considerably more than a valet. He numbered code breaking, five languages and lethally accurate knife-throwing amongst his less public skills, although he was also more than capable of turning out the Marquess of Avenmore in a state of perfection for any social occasion.
Now he shook out Cris’s heavy silk banyan and waited patiently while, swearing under his breath, Cris got out of bed. Collins did, however, wince at the sight of the borrowed nightshirt.
‘I’ve already been carried through the house and dumped in the bath stark naked in front of every female in the place.’ Cris eased his arms into the sleeves of the robe and allowed Collins to tie the sash. ‘I thought it courteous to cover myself.’ The more he thought about it, the more embarrassing it became. He had no reticence about his own body, but being dropped nude and dripping like a half-stunned fish, in front of a gaggle of single ladies was...not good form.
The other man muttered something about stable doors and bolted horses and dropped a pair of backless leather slippers on the floor for him to shuffle his feet into.
‘I feel as though I’m a hundred and four,’ Cris grumbled as he made his way across to the door.
‘If you came ashore here, I would suggest that you had not been swimming like a centenarian.’ Collins opened the door and tactfully did not offer his arm. ‘Top of the stairs, first on the right, sir.’
‘I was swimming like a damn fool, I know that.’ Cris walked straight up the stairs without stopping. Swearing in Russian certainly helped. ‘You must have assumed I had drowned.’
‘I saw no signs of a struggle on the beach when I found your clothes, sir.’ Collins followed him into the bedchamber and shut the door. ‘I therefore concluded you had entered the sea of your own volition. I confess to a degree of anxiety, especially as you had gone out so early and I had not thought to look for you for some time. I questioned the local fishermen, but they had seen nothing. They did, however, inform me of the direction of the currents and I was about to ride along the clifftops in the hope of sighting you when the message arrived.’
‘I was distracted.’ Cris ignored the tactful murmur of Quite, sir. However discreet he had been, and, in fact, there was nothing to be discreet about, it was close to impossible to keep secrets from Collins. Ominously, the bed was covered with towels and the man was pouring oil into his palm. With grim resignation Cris stripped off and lay face down. ‘If you could stop short of actually making me scream I would be obliged. There are ladies around.’
Collins took hold of his right calf and started doing hideous things to the muscles with his thumbs. ‘Yes, sir. An interesting household.’
‘Mrs Perowne is the widow of a man who leapt off a cliff rather than be arrested and hanged for smuggling and associated crimes.’
‘Indeed, sir? Very novel. If you could just bend your knee... Miss Holt, the owner, seems a kindly lady.’
‘Is she the owner? I assumed Mrs Perowne was.’ Brown eyes, hot, sweet mouth, the promise of oblivion for a while. He stirred, uncomfortably aware of how arousing that thought was. ‘Ow! Damn it, man—are you attempting to plait those muscles?’
‘No, to unplait them, sir.’ Collins moved to the other leg. ‘Miss Holt welcomed me to her home. That was how she worded it.’
A ruthless massage was certainly an effective antidote to inappropriate erotic thoughts that made him feel unfaithful to Katerina. Which was a pointless emotion. An indulgence he was not going to wallow in, making himself feel like some tragic victim. They had not been lovers, they had not even spoken of that feeling between them, let alone exchanged protestations of love. There had just been those silent exchanges amidst crowds of others and that one, snatched, burning kiss when they had found themselves alone, passing in a corridor at the Danish royal palace. No words, no hesitation, only her body trembling between his hands, only her mouth sealed to his, her hands on his shoulders, and then her little sob as they tore themselves apart and, without a word, turned and walked away.
It was a relationship that could never be, not without the sacrifice of her reputation, his honour. Cris set his jaw, as much against the pain in his heart as the agony in his overstretched joints. He was a man, he was not going to become a monk because of how he felt for an unattainable woman. Next season he must find himself a bride, get married, assume the responsibilities of his title. He would be faithful to his wife, but not to a phantom—that way lay madness.
Tamsyn Perowne had kissed him back. He smiled into the pillow. It had probably been shock. Doubtless she would box his ears if he took any further liberties. Any fantasies about a willing widow to make him forget his ghosts were just that, fantasies. She was a respectable lady in a small community, not some society sophisticate. He’d be gone tomorrow, out of her life.
There was a tap of knuckles on wood, the creak of hinges and a sudden flap of linen as Collins swirled the sheet over his prone body.
* * *
‘Oh, I beg your pardon, I had assumed Mr Defoe would be in bed by now, not...’ Tamsyn put down the tray on the small table in the window embrasure and tried to forget the brief glimpse of elegant, sharp-boned bare feet as the sheet had settled over the man on the bed. She had seen all of him today, in the sea, in the bath, so what was there to discomfort her so in one pair of bare feet?
‘I have brought some more broth.’ Long toes, high arches, the line of the tendon at his heel... She was prattling now, looking anywhere but at the bed. But it was a small room and a big bed and there wasn’t anywhere else to look, except at the ceiling or the fireplace or the soberly dressed man who stood beside the bed in his shirtsleeves, hands glistening with oil. ‘It isn’t much, and dinner will not be long, but the doctor said to keep his strength up and it will help Mr Defoe’s throat.’
‘Thank you, ma’am,’ the valet said. ‘I will see that Mr Defoe drinks the soup while it is hot.’
‘Mr Defoe is present, and conscious, and capable of speech, Collins.’ The husky voice from the bed brought her head round with a jerk. His eyes were closed, his head resting on his crossed arms, his expression as austere as that of an effigy on a tomb.
‘Are you warm enough? Perhaps I should light the fire.’ She moved without thinking, touched her fingers to the exposed six inches of shoulder above the sheet, just as she would if it had been one of the aunts in the bed. But this was not one of the aunts and his eyes opened, heavy-lidded, watchful, and she did not seem able to move her fingers from the smooth, chill, skin. When they had kissed, those beautiful, unreadable blue eyes had been open, too. Now she tried not to show any recollection of that moment.
‘Yes, I will light the fire.’ The words came out in a coherent sentence, which was a surprise. Her hand was still refusing to obey her. ‘You seem a trifle cool.’
‘Cool? You think so?’ The question had a mocking edge that seemed directed more at himself than at her.
‘I will deal with the fire, ma’am.’ The manservant’s words jerked her back into some sort of reality, mercifully before her hand could trail down below the edge of the sheet.
‘Thank you.’ Tamsyn twitched the cover up over Mr Defoe’s shoulders. ‘I’ll just...’ The blue eyes were still open, still watching her. ‘You should drink that soup while it is hot.’
She retreated with what dignity she could muster and did her best to close the door firmly, but quietly, behind her and not bang it shut and run. What was the matter with her? He was an attractive man. A very attractive man, and she had seen the whole of him, so was in an excellent position to judge, and she had been foolish enough to kiss him and she had saved his life. No, probably not. He was determined enough, and strong enough, to have kept going up the lane if he’d had to. He would have walked in through the kitchen door, in all his naked glory—and that would have made for a nasty accident if Cook had her hands full of something hot at the time. The thought made her smile.
* * *
‘How is Mr Defoe, dear?’ asked Aunt Izzy. ‘You look very cheerful.’
‘Alive, a little warmer and, I suspect, in considerable pain, but his manservant seems highly competent and I am sure he is not going to succumb to a fever.’
‘That is good news. I suppose we may rely on his man to contact his wife, let her know he is safe.’
‘His what?’
‘Wife.’ Aunt Izzy stopped with her hand on the door into the drawing room.
‘Whose wife?’
‘Mr Defoe’s. He is more likely to be married than not, don’t you think? He is very personable, I am sure he is most respectable when he has some clothes on and, if he can afford such a superior manservant, he is obviously in funds.’ She cocked her head on one side, thinking. ‘And he is probably thirty, wouldn’t you say?’
‘About that, yes. Not more.’ His body was that of a fit young man, but there was something about him that spoke of maturity and responsibility. Doubtless marriage would give him that. It had not made Jory any more dependable, let alone respectable, but the man had been wild from a boy and his sense of duty and accountability was not one that most decent men would recognise.
She had no desire to smile now, which was only right and proper. A woman might look at an attractive man and allow her imagination to wander a little...a lot. But a respectable woman did not look at a married man and think anything at all, nor see him as anything other than a fellow human being in need of succour.
‘Mizz Tamsyn, is it convenient for you to review the list of linen for the order I was going to send off tomorrow?’ She looked up to find Mrs Tape at the door, inventory in hand. ‘Only you said you wanted to look it over it with me, but if you’re busy I can leave it.’
‘Certainly. I will come now, Mrs Tape.’ She turned and followed the housekeeper. Linen cupboards full of darned sheets were exactly what she should be concentrating on. And then the accounts and a decision about which of the sheep to send to market would keep her busy until dinner time.
All the humdrum duties of everyday life for an almost respectable country widow who should be very grateful for a calm, uneventful life.
* * *
‘Do you think Mr Defoe will find our dinner time unfashionably early?’ Aunt Izzy sipped her evening glass of sherry and fixed her gaze on Tamsyn.
‘I am sure I do not know. I suppose seven o’clock is neither an old-fashioned country hour nor a fashionably late town one. But as he is either asleep, or will be having his meal on a tray at his bedside, I do not think we need concern ourselves too much with whether his modish sensibilities are likely to be offended.’
‘Mr Defoe strikes me as an adaptable man,’ Aunt Rosie remarked. ‘Although how I can tell that from the brief glimpses I have had of him—’
‘Excuse me, Miss Holt.’ It was Jason, hat in hand, at the drawing-room door. ‘Only there’s a message from Willie Tremayne—a dozen of the sheep have gone over the cliff at Striding’s Cove.’
‘A dozen?’ Tamsyn realised she was on her feet, halfway across the room. ‘How can that be? The pastures are all fenced, Willie was with them, wasn’t he? Is he all right?’
‘Aye, Willie’s safe enough, though by all accounts he’s proper upset. A rogue dog got in with them and the hurdle was broken down in the far corner, though the lad Willie sent says he’s no idea how that happened, because it was all right and tight yesterday.’
‘Whose dog?’ Tamsyn yanked at the bell pull. ‘There aren’t any around these parts that aren’t chained or are working dogs, good with stock.’
‘Don’t rightly know, Mizz Tamsyn. The lad says Willie shot it and it doesn’t seem to have been mad, by all accounts. Not frothing at the mouth nor anything like that. Just vicious.’
‘Oh, Michael, there you are. Find Molly, tell her to put out my riding habit and boots. Jason, saddle my mare.’
‘I don’t think there’s rightly anything you can do, Mizz Tamsyn, not at this time in the evening. Some of the men from the village helped Willie barricade the fence and one of the boats has gone down to the foot of the cliffs to see if there’s anything to salvage.’ Jason shrugged. ‘By the time you get there it’ll all be done.’ He looked past her to the fireside and lowered his voice. ‘I think the ladies are a mite upset, perhaps you’d be best biding here. I’ll send the lad back with the message that you’ll be along in the morning, shall I?’
She wanted to go, to stand on the clifftop and rage, but it would achieve nothing. She had to think. ‘Yes, do that if you please, Jason.’
When she turned back into the room she was glad she had listened to him. Aunt Izzy was pale, a lace handkerchief pressed to her lips. Rosie was white-faced also, but hers was the pallor of anger. ‘That was no accident. That was Chelford up to his nasty tricks again. Izzy, that boy is becoming a serious nuisance.’
‘He is no boy,’ Tamsyn snapped. ‘He is thirty years old with an over-developed sense of what is owed to his consequence and no scruples about the methods he uses to get what he wants. If this is down to him, then he is becoming more than a nuisance. I think he is becoming dangerous.’
‘Who is becoming dangerous, if I might ask?’
Mr Defoe stood in the doorway, dressed, shaved and very much awake. His eyes were fully open, the flexible voice had lost almost all of the painful huskiness, and the long, lean body was clad in what she could only assume was fashionable evening wear for a dinner on the wilder coasts of Devon—slim-fitting pantaloons, a swallowtail coat, immaculate white linen and a neckcloth of intricate folds fixed with a simple sapphire pin that matched the subtle embroidery of his waistcoat.
‘What are you doing out of bed. Mr Defoe? The doctor said you should rest and not get up until tomorrow.’ Tamsyn knew she was staring, which did not help her find any sort of poise. And, faced with this man, she discovered that she wanted poise above everything.
‘I am warm, rested and I need to keep my muscles moving,’ he said mildly as he moved past her into the room. ‘Good evening, Miss Holt, Miss Pritchard. Thank you for the invitation to dine with you.’
Invitation? What invitation? One glance at them had Tamsyn seething inwardly. They had invited him without telling her, for some nefarious reason of their own. They should have left the poor man to sleep. She eyed the poor man as he made his way slowly, but steadily, to the fireside and made his elegant bow to the aunts.
